


new ways to deceive yourself

by singmyheart



Category: Do No Harm (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 15:59:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8584723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singmyheart/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: Jason stares at him for a second, and Ruben’s gratified, childishly, silently pleased by the fact that he looks kind of stupid.





	

 

 

It’s almost Pavolvian, at this point. All Jason has to do is come bursting into a room and say Ruben’s name in that fucking  _ tone  _ and the stress headache starts in his temples almost instantaneously, crawls inward. Ruben honestly tries to tune him out a solid thirty percent of the time,  _ tries  _ being the operative word. He’s generally unsuccessful, and what's worse, they both know it.

Presently Jason’s going off a mile a minute about Vanessa and a drug test. He’s wheedling, and Ruben can feel his resolve starting to crumble in spite of himself. Business as usual, then. “Sounds like you’re screwed,” he says, and he’s aiming for cavalier, dismissive, but it doesn’t quite land. Tries to walk away but of course Jason follows, right at his elbow. Ruben knows more or less what he’s going to say before he says it and it still needles at him.

“I am, unless you have - I don’t know - a clean sample that you can swap out?” And to his credit, Jason at least tries to make it sound like a request. 

“You see what I’m talking about, right?” It’s out of Ruben’s mouth before he can stop himself, remind himself to get a fucking grip, keep it together. “Everything’s always about  _ you,  _ about solving your problems - “

“Please,” Jason says, plaintive. “These - these patients. They’re all I have, understand? I don’t have anything else. I need your help.”

Later, Ruben will kick himself for the thousand cutting, even cruel things he could’ve said in this moment, clever exit lines he could’ve dropped if he’d been quick enough and wasn’t (which is just - his whole life, really). As it is, all he can think to do is ask the question that his brain screams at him in flashing neon every single time this happens: “What the fuck’s in it for me, Jason?” Jason stares at him for a second, and Ruben’s gratified, childishly, silently pleased by the fact that he looks kind of stupid. “That’s what I thought,” Ruben mutters, and goes to push past him and get back to work, but Jason stops him short, a hand on his chest. And then Jason just - drops, his knees hitting the linoleum floor with an audible, painful crack. For a split second he looks just as surprised at himself as Ruben is, and then it’s gone, replaced by that pleading, imploring look he’s been wearing so often lately. “That’s - not what I meant,” Ruben says, faintly. Having to look  _ down  _ at Jason is entirely new and, well, he doesn’t hate it.

“I know,” Jason says. Steady. Damn him. He reaches one (shaking) hand up to touch - to touch what, Ruben doesn’t know exactly, but the tiny part of his brain that’s still working rationally stops that in its tracks.

“Lock the door,” Ruben says, hears his own voice as if from far away. As if the precaution even matters, as if this isn't a completely stupid, reckless thing to do no matter what. Jason gets up and he locks the door and comes back, goes back down, a little gentler this time. Ruben gropes for the swivel chair behind him and drops onto it, beckons Jason forward, much more confidently than he feels. What the  _ actual fuck  _ is happening. Jason comes to him on his knees and Ruben lets him touch this time, ruck the hem of his shirt up, tug at his belt. 

“I need your help,” Jason repeats, quietly, almost more to himself than Ruben. Takes his dick out and strokes, lightly but practiced, watches it harden steadily in his hand with what Ruben wants so much to believe is hunger.

“Prove it,” says whatever brazen creature has taken over Ruben’s body. Jason looks up at him, his expression unreadable, and then he opens his mouth and swallows Ruben down. Gags almost immediately, throat spasming, and backs up. That's what he gets for showing off. 

“Haven't done this in a while,” Jason admits, and that must be embarrassment causing him to flush like that. “Let me just -” 

He doesn't finish the sentence, and Ruben lets him just. Takes it easy this time, slow, dead slow until his lips are almost touching his own hand where it's wrapped around the base of Ruben’s cock. Ruben, for his part, has literally had dreams about this exact thing, but figures now’s maybe not the time to mention it. It's been a while for him too, a long while, and Jason's mouth is warm and wet and it feels fucking incredible. That's in spite of the utter ridiculousness of the situation, so unlike the dozens of times Ruben’s let himself think about it: never here, like this, under terrible fluorescent lights with people ten feet away on the other side of the wall. Jason's too tall for this, his shoulders hunched a little in a way that can't be entirely comfortable - and Ruben thinks  _ I don't care,  _ and then berates himself for it, and then reconsiders. Fuck it. He doesn't care if Jason's comfortable. Jason doesn't care about him. 

Jason doesn't protest when Ruben touches him, sinks a hand into his hair; doesn't protest when Ruben rolls his hips forward a fraction, experimentally. Chokes a little but he's clearly trying to relax, trying to take it even as he's tearing up. Ruben’s never been much of a talker but he does it now, mostly so he doesn't have to listen to his own ragged breathing, the catch that comes this close to a whine. It's the kind of gross shit he's let himself think about Jason in the privacy of his own bed, conjuring a touch other than his own in the dark.  _ You look good on your knees, look at you, that mouth. _

He's never said things like this to another person in his life and it doesn't come out quite as confident as he might have liked, cut through as it is with the stress of time, the possibility of getting caught. He can just see through the blinds from where he is and thankfully the coast is clear, which is a small blessing because he's too far gone to stop now. Jason inhales messily around him like he's trying to speak, blue eyes bright and shining wet. Ruben’s hot all over, shivery, feverish almost, and he's chasing it - 

“I'm gonna come,” he gasps just a second too late; Jason pulls off in enough time for Ruben to come half in his mouth, on his chin, his jaw. He looks mildly disgusted when he swallows, which is no less than he deserves, Ruben thinks vaguely. Later he’ll be kind of ashamed of how little time that took but right now he's thinking only of the sheen of sweat sticking his shirt to his back, the frantic thud of his heart. Oxytocin, dopamine, adrenaline, prolactin, cortisol. It's just biology, a four-stage cycle in response to stimuli. 

Jason’s a fucking mess, his face flushed, covered in come and saliva and tears. Under other circumstances it might’ve been a good look. He drags an arm across his reddened mouth, coughs. Quiet and a little hoarse when he speaks. “We good?” 

“Uh - yeah,” Ruben says, sighs. His knees are weak but he gets up, crosses the room, comes back with the sample. Hands it to Jason, who hasn't yet gotten up off the floor and looks faintly shellshocked. “You've earned that, I guess.” 

“Thanks,” Jason murmurs, looks up at him but briefly, pretty quickly drops his gaze back to somewhere around Ruben’s knees. 

The door has hardly closed behind him before the headache starts creeping back in. 

_ Well,  _ Ruben tells himself later (after he's gotten off hard in the shower to the memory of it).  _ You got what you wanted, for once.  _

**Author's Note:**

> WELP.
> 
> if this should be tagged differently/better let me know. title from “black belt” by john grant, it's a jam.
> 
> @youbuiltcathedrals on the tumble.


End file.
